The news of the engagement of Esperance and the Count Styvens was known all over Paris. Letters came to the farm of Penhouet, done up in packets. Many expressed to the philosopher and his wife their joy at hearing that their daughter had decided to leave a career so … so very … in which … in fact that…! Every absurd prejudice, so puritanly ingrained in the minds of most middle class divisions and sections and even amongst the more cultivated, was endlessly repeated upon with the usual banalities in the large correspondence of their friends and others. Poor actors, so misunderstood! so misrepresented! The philosopher showed all the letters to Esperance, who shrugged her shoulders, astonished to find there was so much prejudice in the world against her beloved calling. One letter, however, she took quite seriously. It was written by the most eminent of all the Academicians. One sentence in the epistle wounded the poor child very deeply. "Now I shall be able to go about your election with more confidence and security. Dare I admit to you, my dear Professor, that the only obstacle I encountered, and which seemed to me insurmountable, was the career chosen by that lovely child, your daughter, whose talent we all admire so much! Now I can start my campaign, and I am very sure, my dear Darbois, of achieving our ambition without much difficulty. Therefore, perhaps, I shall not altogether deserve your thanks."

What Genevieve had said was patently true; her father had sacrificed his dearest hope for her, and he had done it so all unostentatiously…. Ah! how she loved her father, who was unlike other men! He was standing there before her, smiling, a little scornful of all these little souls. And as he handed her another letter—"No, father dear, no, I beg you. Pardon me the wrong that I have been doing you; I admire you and I love you, dear papa, but leave me with the noble feeling of your supreme kindness; I would rather not know any more of the little meannesses of the world."

She climbed on her father's knees and covered his forehead with kisses.

"Look," said Mme. Darbois, holding up a letter "eight pages from your godfather."

Esperance jumped up laughing, "That I certainly shall not read."

"I am going to write to the Countess that I give up my art…." And swift as a shadow she was gone.

The philosopher sat hesitating, his expression troubled. Had he the right to compel this sacrifice, knowing, realizing, as he did, that his child had based all the happiness of her life on the career she was now voluntarily giving up for his sake? Germaine looked at him questioningly.

"Do you believe, my dear, that I ought to let Esperance write to the Countess, as she proposes? I fear that she is making this sacrifice to gratify my vanity."

"FranÇois!" exclaimed Mme. Darbois indignantly.

"My pride, if you prefer it," he said. "But what is such a satisfaction in comparison with the happiness of a life? To me it seems very unjust!"

Germaine adored her husband and her daughter, but she believed more, than in anything in the world, in the noble genius of the philosopher.

"Esperance's sacrifice," she said, "is very slight. She is making a superb marriage into one of the noblest, richest families in Belgium. Albert worships the ground she walks on. The Countess will be more than indulgent to her. She is realizing the most perfect future a young girl can hope for. I see nothing to regret, because she is making a slight concession to her father."

FranÇois looked a little sadly at this mother who had never comprehended her daughter's psychology. He knew that for this sweet woman the happiness of life began with her husband and ended with him.

He did not want to argue and rose, saying, "I must do some work."

Ho kissed the unlined forehead of his beloved wife, and then as he was leaving the room added, "Tell Esperance I should like to see her letter before she sends it."

Esperance sat at her desk in her own room, but she sat with her head in her hands, unable to begin her letter. Presently Genevieve came in.

"Is anything the matter, dear?"

Esperance told her what had just happened downstairs.

"I have learned once more that all your reasonings and counsels are always wise, dear sister…. I am sitting trying how to write to the Countess to tell her that I am not going back to the stage!"

Genevieve kissed her. Esperance let her head fall on her friend's bosom, and raising her eyes to her face, said slowly, "But oh! I have not the courage."

Genevieve knelt beside the desk, and dipping the pen in the ink, put a fresh sheet of paper before Esperance, saying with a laugh, "Mlle., get on with your task. I am the school mistress to see that you write properly!"

The smile she brought to Esperance's lips chased away the nebulous uncertainties, and so she wrote her letter to her dear little "Countess-mama," as she had called her since her engagement. When her mother came with the philosopher's message and saw the letter, she was delighted with the phrasing and thanked her daughter warmly for the joy it would give her father.

"Ah! mama, I believe that I am the happiest of the three Darbois, dear ridiculous mama!" And she gave her a quick embrace.

Life was again travelling the simple, daily country round. It was after lunch, three days after Esperance had written her letter.

"Why so pensive, little daughter? Where were your thoughts?"

Esperance jumped up at this question from her father.

"I was dreaming. I am so sorry. I was in Belgium, near the Countess Styvens when my letter would be brought in to her, for, as nearly as I can make out, it ought to arrive to-day."

"No," said M. Darbois, "that letter has not been delivered; it is still in my desk."

Their faces expressed the great astonishment that they felt.

"You did not like it, papa?"

"Very much, very much. It is quite good—and—and pathetic."

"Then, darling papa?"

"I want to talk with you a little more before you send it."

Everyone drank their coffee a little quicker, and five minutes later FranÇois found himself alone with his daughter. Even Mme. Darbois had withdrawn, afraid that she might show her own anxiety too much.

"I am listening to you, papa."

"You are going to answer my questions with perfect frankness,
Esperance?"

"Yes, father."

"Had you thought of writing to Countess Styvens before you read that letter?"

He drew the Academician's letter from his portfolio and placed it before her.

"No, father, dear."

"Then it was on my account, and to facilitate my admittance to the
Academy, that you wrote?"

"Oh! no," replied Esperance quickly, "I would not do you that injustice, knowing how much you love me, and knowing the purity of your heart, the nobility of your ambition. I am sacrificing what I believe, perhaps wrongly, to be my happiness, to the demands of a misunderstanding world. I knew, when I read that letter, that I had no right to drag a man of your merit, my dear mother, and all the family, into the troubles of a life in which they have no real interest. I did not want you to have the sympathy of the world. Sympathy is too often akin to scorn!"

FranÇois would have spoken, but Esperance interrupted him.

"Oh! father darling. You are so good. Don't torment me further, send the letter. I am still so new to this role. I need your sincere, your constant help."

Just then Marguerite came in and handed the philosopher a letter, bearing an armorial seal, which had just come from Palais. He quickly opened it, seemed surprised and passed it to his daughter.

"What! The Duchess de Castel-Montjoie is at Palais," she said. Then she read: "My dear Philosopher, the Princess and I will come, if agreeable to you, after five. I name this hour because the Princess's yacht has to leave to take up friends who are waiting for us at Brehat."

"What time is it?" said Esperance, turning round.

The professor consulted his watch.

"Twenty minutes past three. Quick, Marguerite, tell the men to harness the victoria with the two horses at once."

A quarter of an hour later the carriage was ready to leave. When it had disappeared round the corner from the farm, Genevieve and her friend prepared to go for a walk. Esperance told her mother and Mlle. Frahender that they would be back again in half an hour. They climbed down the cliff, and were soon out of earshot of everyone—they were quite alone. "Genevieve, Genevieve," said Esperance, "I feel that a new danger is threatening me, ready to destroy all my new illusions. Do not leave me, darling."

"What is it that you fear?"

"I can only be sure of one thing, I am in such horrible distress, and that is that the Duke de Morlay-La-Branche is at the bottom of this visit. Ah! if I could be sure that I should never see him again, never, never!…"

And she cried in her great distress like a little child.

Genevieve stayed at her side, without saying a word, only stroking her hands from time to time. Presently Esperance grew calmer.

"Come," she said, rising from the boulder on which they had seated themselves. "We must dress to receive the enemy's emissaries." Her voice was light, but her heart was heavy.

Maurice, who had been strolling not far off with Jean, came up and noticing Esperance's tearful eyes, said: "What is the matter?"

"I dread this visit," exclaimed Esperance.

"What is the reason of this sudden call?" ejaculated Maurice.

"I think I can guess," said the actor.

"Well, tell me!"

"But if I should be wrong?" said Jean.

"What a frightful lot of circumlocution," cried Maurice impatiently, pretending to tear out his hair.

But Esperance replied, "No, Jean, you are not mistaken. I can guess your thoughts. I am afraid, as I just now said to Genevieve, that the Duke de Morlay-La-Branche is connected in some way with this visit of the Princess and her friend!"

"If the Duke comes here, but I do not believe he will, Jean and I will not leave him alone a minute. I assure you that he will get more of our company than he will appreciate. But, knowing that the Count is not here, I do not think he will come. He is too correct for that! Come, let us dance in honour of Albert!"

Taking his cousin's hands and Genevieve's, he nodded his head to Jean to do the same thing, and led them into a whirlwind dance upon the sands of the beach, until the girls laughed as though no heavy thoughts were weighing in their hearts.

Two hours later the victoria arrived from Palais. The young people could see that it contained only two ladies and the philosopher, and Genevieve breathed again.

The Princess descended lightly before the front door. She kissed
Esperance, and after speaking to Mme. Darbois, had Maurice, Jean and
Genevieve presented to her.

"You did the portrait of which the Duke de Morlay has spoken so highly?"

Maurice bowed.

"Would it be impertinence if I asked you to let me see it?" she said with a smile.

"I thank you, Madame; you flatter me by your request."

The Dowager Duchess, with whom the Princess had been spending three weeks at her ChÂteau of Castel-Montjoie, was now presented to Mme. Darbois. She was a lovable and delightful old lady, with a great appreciation of art and science. Both ladies had been present with the Duke at the last Conservatoire competition, and they expressed to Esperance, Genevieve and Jean the enjoyment their performances had given them. The Duchess was much struck by Genevieve's proud beauty, and said to Maurice, "Ah! Monsieur, what another beautiful portrait you could make! This young lady is much more beautiful close to than even on the stage!" And she added a kind and appreciative word for the classic talent of Jean Perliez.

Tea was to be served in the little beautiful convolvulus garden. When they entered this shelter, which a poet might have designed, the Duchess exclaimed enviously, "What a heavenly spot. Who is the inspired person who has arranged this mysterious flowery retreat for you?"

The philosopher pointed to Maurice and the girls.

The Princess admired it, and the conversation rippled on. "We are come to trouble your bower with a plea for charity! Every year, the Duchess gives a garden party in her beautiful park at Montjoie for the benefit of the 'Orphans of the Fishermen.' There is a little open-air theatre, where some of the greatest actors have appeared. Little rustic booths, shops where you pay a great deal for nothing at all, and a thousand other distractions. We are come, the Duchess and I, drawn by a very pretty star, Esperance. She will not deny us her light, our lovely little star?" she concluded, bending towards Esperance.

"But, Madame," murmured Esperance, "my decision—my promises do not depend on myself alone, now."

The Duchess extracted a letter from her gold mesh bag and held it towards her.

"You are perfectly right, my dear child," she said easily. "I also foresaw that objection, so I wrote to your fiancÉ, even before speaking to you, for which I must apologize, and here is his answer."

Esperance read the little missive bearing the Styvens's arms and handed it back to the Duchess.

"I will not be," she said smiling sadly, "more royalist than the king.
Madame, I am at the service of your work."

This was a great delight to the two kindly disposed women, but the young girl's heart was torn because her fiancÉ would not see! It is true that his letter ended with the words, "I agree with both hands to whatever Esperance shall decide," so that little choice was left.

The garden party was to be the twentieth of September. It was then the end of August.

"And of what nature is to be the modest contribution I can make to your fÊte?" asked Esperance, half humorously.

"Modest! Of course you will be the principal attraction. My guests, knowing that they will see you for the last time before Count Styvens carries his little idol away from the public…."

Esperance was saying to herself, "so this cultivated, broad-minded lady thinks just as the others do."

The Princess continued, "We want you to play with your fiancÉ the Liszt symphonic poem that you played one evening at the Legation; and to take part in some tableaux vivants that we are all to appear in. The Duke de Morlay-La-Branche is directing and staging this part of the programme. The performance will be given only by people we know—no professionals."

The Princess had spoken quite quickly, without reflection. She blushed slightly when she remembered Esperance and Jean Perliez, but she had made the mistake and there was no way of calling it back. She thought that Esperance belonged to that circle where a compliment effaces what might seem like an impertinence.

At first the name of the Duke de Morlay had fallen like a pebble in the stream and began to ripple the waters; a spreading circle of thoughts, fears, resentments began to move in every heart. The philosopher himself was troubled, for he had been prompted by Maurice to observe the assiduous attractions of the Duke, and the agitation he caused Esperance whenever they had been together. Esperance and Genevieve both grew pale. The young painter raised his head, ready for some sort of a return reply. Without hesitation he had decided on the plan to follow. He must not only be invited to the fÊte, which would be easy enough; he must take part in it, so as to be able to shadow and watch the manoeuvres of the over agreeable Duke.

"If you will allow me, Madame," he said boldly, "I should like to contribute my mite to your fÊte by painting the scenery?"

The Princess clapped her hands with delight at the suggestion and this new support.

"How pleased my cousin de Morlay will be," she exclaimed. "He has just been saying to me, 'For the scenery we shall require a painter, a real artist.'"

"A professional," said Maurice, bowing ironically.

The Princess was somewhat provoked, but she appeared not to notice the rather pointed remark.

"You might also design the costumes for the tableaux vivants," she continued.

"My cousin," exclaimed Esperance, "has a great gift for arrangement and composition. You will be able to judge for yourself soon; I will show you how beautifully he has painted my portrait."

"True. May we see it now?"

This made a welcome change for the four young people. They all went towards the "Five Divisions of the World." The Duchess stopped every now and then on the way to admire the sea and the luminous quality of the air. She was really amazed when she was shown the picture. It had been installed in the little court, under a kind of alcove that Maurice had made for it. He had found in his aunt's "reliquary" some pretty hangings which hid the alcove, and the picture lost nothing by the arrangement of drapery.

"You have indeed a beautiful portrait there," said the Princess sincerely. "Every year for his birthday I give my husband some work of art. If you do not find me too unworthy a subject it shall be signed this year, 'Maurice Renaud.'"

The young man bowed. "I shall be very happy indeed, Madame, and very highly honoured."

"Then, as our friend and collaborator," said the Duchess, "you must, I think, come with us at once so as to be able to get to work with the Duke without delay."

"Give me time to pack by bag, Madame," returned the triumphant
Maurice, "and I will join you at the carriage."

"I will come and help with your packing, cousin. You will excuse me?" she added turning to the Princess.

And Esperance, followed by Genevieve and Jean Perliez disappeared together.

As soon as she was sure she was out of ear-shot Esperance threw her arms about her cousin's neck. "You were simply wonderful."

"Yes," joined in Maurice, "the enemy has fallen into the ambush, as Baron van Berger would say. I will be back as soon as possible, but I must take time to rout our amiable Duke. He is the real enemy, and the most difficult opponent, but I am confident. With my most diabolical scheming, little cousin, I am going to have great fun. All the same, I foresee that I sha'n't be able to stay away long." And he kissed Genevieve's hand tenderly.

They soon finished the packing, and Jean closed the suitcase, and the young people arrived at the carriage just as it drew up.

"How very good it is of you to accept this sudden demand upon your services with such good grace!"

"I must remind you, Madame, that I suggested the work myself and I am glad to do it. I am also quite happy to be carried off by you, as it is such an unlooked-for pleasure."

Two days later the professor had a letter from Maurice, which he read aloud to the family as they drank their coffee.

"My dear Uncle,—This letter is to be shared by the whole community. I have found a world gone mad in this magnificent chÂteau. We are twenty-two at table. I have been cordially welcomed by all the strangers, to whom this cursed Duke, delightful fellow, has graciously presented me. I set to work at once to unravel and discover the plans of Charles de Morlay. But more anon. This is the programme: an orchestra composed of excellent artists are to play while the guests arrive, inspect each other, and take their places. We begin with a little ballet, entitled, The Moon in Search of Pierrot, acted and danced by some very good amateurs. I am to paint the drop for this ballet, and the authors (it has taken three of them to elaborate the stupidest scenario you ever yawned through) have called for a Scandinavian design and I have promised it, and shall paint it at Penhouet. Then, the great attraction, the tableaux vivants. That is where I lay in wait for our astute Duke. I will spare you details of nine of the tableaux. There are to be twelve, but Esperance appears only in three, which are the best. In one she represents Andromeda fastened to the rock, and Perseus (the Duke) delivers her after overcoming the dragon. In the second, the 'Judgment of Paris,' she appears as Aphrodite, to whom Paris (the Duke) gives the apple. The third is 'Europa and the Bull,' Europa being personified by Esperance. The Duke does not wish to look ridiculous in a bull's hide, so takes liberties with the legend and transforms the bull into a centaur. I have said 'Amen' to everything. Finally to complete the fÊte, which will no doubt be well attended and very profitable, there will be little shops of all kinds. Esperance is to sell flowers from the Duchess's gardens. I have my own idea on this point, which I shall later confide to you. I can easily get her fiancÉ to agree. Your nephew, dear uncle, should live in the land of honey for the future. I have already had orders for three portraits, and of three pretty women, which assures me that the portraits will be successful. Ahem! I am taking all my notes to-day and will be with you the day after to-morrow. It is up to you, dear uncle, to distribute in unequal or suitable doses my respects and love and affection amongst all those anxious to receive such privileges. Your affectionately devoted, Maurice."

"It seems to me," said Genevieve, as she left the dining-room with Esperance, "that your cousin has arranged everything very well, and that you ought to be quite happy and content."

"Oh! I know very well that I shall be taken care of, but how can I struggle against the tumultuous ideas that assail me? The vision of the Duke has haunted me ever since Maurice left. I have never seen the chÂteau, but I am sure that I shall recognize it. I would like to fall ill with some complaint that would send me to sleep and sleep. Oh! if I could get a little ugly for a little while, just long enough to make the Duke lose interest in me, I should be so glad. Dear Genevieve, can't you give me a little dose of the elixir of your happiness. I need it sorely just now."

The girls had been walking as they talked down to the little beach at Penhouet. The sea was at low tide, and the golden sand, dried by the sun, offered them a restful couch. They stretched themselves out upon it, and Esperance soon fell asleep. Jean Perliez appeared on the crest of the little hill that hides the bay from the sightseeker. Genevieve signed to him to come down quietly. He had a telegram, a dispatch from Belgium. He pinned it to Esperance's hat lying on the sand at her side, and dropping down close to Genevieve, began to talk in low tones. For both he and Genevieve were uneasy concerning their little friend.

A farm dog at the moment began to bark furiously. Esperance woke quickly, looking pale and worried, with her hands pressed on her frightened heart. She saw the telegram and opened it quickly.

"Albert will be here this evening by the second boat. What time is it?" She showed a little emotion, but only a little, though she felt deeply.

She looked towards the sun.

"It can't be four yet."

Jean took out his watch.

"Twenty to four," he said.

"The boat can't get here before five-thirty. Quick, quick, run, Jean, and ask to have some conveyance got ready. I must go and tell my father and get his permission to go with you and Genevieve to meet my fiancÉe. Ah! what good luck!" she said with a long breath, "What good luck!"

FranÇois Darbois was delighted for his daughter to go and meet Albert, and departed so radiantly that he said to his wife, "I believe she is getting to love this brave Albert?"

Genevieve, who had heard, as had also Jean, said to the young man in a low voice, "But, my God! suppose she is beginning to love the Duke?"